Contemporary Decadence
by CuttleMeFish
Summary: Arthur isn't fond of critics. But he can understand the constructed ideals of the age. All that matters if what he knows, really: few men in confidence would ever deny to loving the company of beautiful things. It's in their nature, and it is in his.
1. Chapter 1

**Author Note: **Kink-meme de-anon. A bit different from the original. Work in progress. Thankfully I have the actual outline finalized. The pairings are USUK and Franada. I'll add notes at the end of the entire work as necessary. Though if you have questions with respect to Victorian times and basic aesthetic philosophy or the decadent movement, feel free to ask. Rated for aesthetic philosophy, discussions of Victorian decadence, and language.

_**Contemporary Decadence**_

Beautiful spouse  
I love your tears!  
They're the dew  
Befitting flowers.

Beautiful things  
Have but one spring  
With roses let's sow  
Time's footprints!

Blonde or brunette  
Must we select?  
Pleasure is  
The god of this world.

-**Gérard de Nerval**; _Gothic Song_

**January 1887**

When they meet, it is at a mutual friend's evening soirée.

Francis is relatively poor. All he owns worth much of _anything_ is the poems in his pocket, which he keeps with a fountain pen that stains his jacket. All Arthur owns is _half_of England. They hate each other instantly. It is obvious in the way Arthur bristles when they touch.

Then Arthur comes to love Francis' notebook, the one in his pocket. Francis comes to love Arthur's checkbook, the one in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. And when the evening ends, they still hate each other, but in the edge of their grins there is a secret: acceptance.

It isn't often a poor writer meets his muse.

It isn't often a young man becomes a muse.

**.**

**March 1887**

Arthur is proud of his nature. More than he will ever be ashamed of his reputation. It's the principle that drives him, after all. Breeding is such a strong puppeteer.

If he was cleverer, he would say it was in his nature to be a gentleman, even if it is in his _reputation _to be an eccentric. Maybe then he would fall into the casualty of being quoted. People do like quoting others. He's not sure he'd like being quoted.

Truly, it isn't his fault, though.

People will make what they will of everything. It is the spittoon of critics that are to blame. Everyone feels entitled to an opinion. Arthur isn't sure everyone deserves one, but he can appreciate the ember of passion so easily fueled by the exercise of mind and matter in building the bridge over the gap of honesty and lies so common to his society.

Arthur understands. He doesn't like it. If he's honest, he can admit he doesn't have to like it. No one cares if he likes it or not. He just has to compromise.

To be fair, no one likes the trench of hypocrisy—dark and lucid, breaching in the fantasy of the act like a luminary without talent. He isn't fond of critics, either. _Is anyone?_ But he can understand the constructed ideals of the age. All that matters if what _he_knows, really, and that is that few men in confidence would ever deny to loving the company of beautiful things. It is in their nature, and it is in his.

He's rebellious.

It's still not his fault.

Francis always tells him it isn't his fault, and who should a man trust if not his best friend?

Besides, he doubts his briefs in matters of style will ever find fruition in the threats of pecuniary excommunication his brother likes to throw at him. No one was ever hurt by beauty. Insulted, maybe, but hurt? Certainly _not_.

(Beauty is like a pillow. It cradles the soul. Or at least it should.)

Arthur likes to focus on what he _knows_. And he knows beauty, just as much as he knows human _nature._

There's little chance that his brother would ultimately cut him off for wearing costumes of white velvet, and gold-embroidered waistcoats, and gloves tight like skin—simple, seamless messages like little calls of attention to his own alabaster skin and the bright emerald of his eyes.

Youth is but a wink. Close your eyes for too long and it is gone. _This_is what Arthur knows.

Arthur has a lifetime to don black. For now, he'd rather bask in light.

Praise is so short-lived, after all.

But who likes thinking about such tedious matters? For now, he just wants to wear bouquets of Parma in the opening of his shirt instead of cravats. Oh, he doesn't dislike cravats. He loves them—enough to want to curl the same cravats in his fingers, untie them, and then throw them by his feet. He likes letting his fingers run over the jugulars of men that nip praises of poetry close to his skin.

Yes, Arthur likes what he knows, mostly because he knows what he likes. He does not always know what he _loves_. Who does?

His axiom is relative. Literature is simple. Beauty even simpler – who would not like beauty? Who should not like literature? – He has always had a love for literature, especially for those that _create_ literature. Not that any of his lovers have ever created _beautiful_literature.

But if he's learned anything about writers, authors, and other men of letters, is that the world is cold to beauty unborn.

Arthur thinks this is cruel. Why should a poem trapped in the reverberations of someone's throat – wrapped in the curl of someone's tongue – be thought any less beautiful than a poem drawn in ink? Ink is messy anyway. It's black and thick and stains white. And, velvet is ever so hard to clean.

Francis teaches him that – from one friend to another. To be fair, Francis has taught Arthur a lot of things. Ink's threat to fine clothing is just one of them.

**.**

**April 1891**

Arthur is the kind to get bored easily. It's a shame considering he is mostly charmed by simple things, not because he finds them exciting or pretty, but just because there's a charisma to them, like old antiques or magical baubles. This soon becomes a problem, mostly for Francis.

Francis becomes too famous for his tastes in a few years.

Noise is never welcome in Arthur Kirkland's life. Symphonies yes; noise never.

Francis is like noise, like air too vapid to be breathed in, always coming with the thunder of applause and praise and Arthur hates it because he can admit he has always liked it when Francis' attention was only his. His friendship has become a reminder of Arthur's worth—Arthur has only ever been a good muse. Now, he is not even half of that. He's not even a muse.

Maybe Francis had always known the question would come. He stares at his friend, who seems content to lie on the divan of his bedroom in Paris, letting out small puffs of tobacco from his very red lips. And, still, the question does not come. Muses are fickle sometimes, he assumes.

"I am growing old, Francis," Arthur breathes out, much like a confession.

Francis snorts, sketching disinterestedly a picture of Arthur's eyes, "Is that why you are wearing gray today?"

Arthur hums his acknowledgement, rolling on his side. The ashes of his cigarette fall on Francis' carpet, but neither seems to care. The carpet was a present from one of Francis' newer patrons, and it is ugly—demure and brown with gaudy pink flowers. Its loss is not worth much to Francis.

"The way I see it," Arthur purses his lips, "I have at best a couple of years left."

Seldom do muses give themselves an expiration date. Francis pauses his inking. The advice he gives is simple. Maybe that's why Arthur likes it.

"Let me guess. You want to befriend men of letters, Arthur? — Then feed them. Few hard pressed artists would give up the opportunity of acquiring a patron as influential as yourself, much less a meal. Only the truly great ones live from words alone, _tu sais_."

"Oh yes," green eyes shine like a cat's in the dim light of the room, "that's certainly something I learned from you years ago. But I do not want just beautiful artists, Francis. No, I want a genius. Geniuses. And a genius is not attracted by a simple meal. He craves something else."

"I was," Francis retorts, coughing. "Attracted by a meal. I mean."

"Ah yes," Arthur rolls his eyes, "but you are not a genius, are you now? – You were talented. Now you are famous. But you are not a genius. Seldom does genius attract fame."

"How would you know? – 'Ave you ever met a genius? They are often not beautiful." Francis scoffed, "Your tastes are always so contradictory."

"Have _you _met one?" Arthur snaps, sulking again. "My tastes are never fickle. I know what I like and want it just as much as I like what I know I want."

"Come with me tonight to Paris, then," Francis smirks, pushing his sketch away. "I have been invited to a petite soirée that I think you will be most intrigued to attend. Will you come? I can bring a guest, and I am sure you will be most impressed by the genius you will meet tonight."

Arthur tenses, almost instantly aware of Francis's offer. He has known that his expiration date was fast-approaching, but he is not sure that he is ready to meet Francis' replacement. _If_such a thing was even possible—and still, here he was with his stomach in his chest from nerves. He shrugs. "I've little else to do, I suppose. And if you promise me a genius, then how can I refuse?"

**.**

It is in Paris that Arthur learns to transform simple dining rooms into dreams: gardens with ash-powdered walks and pools bordered with basalt and filled with ink, lit by candelabra from which green flames blaze. He is inspired by chandeliers from which wax tapers flare. He learns from a Duchess, whose husband, a man of letters and a genius himself, is beautiful like a painting and supports her eccentric habits. She, herself, is beautiful like a marble statue. She is brilliant like a luminary in rustic darkness. Oh, how he comes to love her, and respect her husband, if only because he managed to collect such a beautiful living piece of art, for she breathes air and exhales perfume.

All sorts of men of letters come to her table just for her husband, even if he stays for only half a cup of tea. And if Arthur had never thought he'd find something to lull his eternal boredom, well, he finds it in banquets and murmurs and music and flowers and white and gold.

Yes, Arthur meets the Duke but for a fleeting moment, lost in the violet of his eyes and the dark ebony of his hair. He is beautiful and young and eternal in the way ice feels strangely magical to the touch of warm skin—like a tingle and burn. Francis whispers the Duke's name in Arthur's ear. He whispers his age, too.

_Fifty._

And to look even less than half your age! – Now _that's_a mystery Arthur wants to solve. But already there's a flash of recognition between them.

"You wear black," Arthur blinks, informing the Duke of his poor choice. "To appear so young and to wear black…"

The Duke laughs, his black-clad fingers flexing, "Oh Monsieur Kirkland, we all wear black. And those that do not really should. Do you not see?—everyone has something to mourn, except perhaps the fool. Only a fool would wear white. It stains. And nothing stains more than little sin, wouldn't you say?"

The Duke takes Arthur's hand, giving him a quirk of a smile before excusing himself. He climbs the stairs of marble, hiding in the shadows of his own home. Green eyes can only scan the expanse of his broad-shoulders and tapered waist, even as the Duchess excuses her husband.

"He is currently attached to his lab, I'm afraid," she informs him, leading him back to the table. A few gentlemen groan their disappointment, only cheering up when she engages them in conversation again, mostly surrounding something or other that Arthur no longer cares about.

Arthur can only enjoy the warmth still tingling on his fingers. And it is only then that Arthur learns what a genius feels like.

It is surprisingly addictive.

**.**

That evening, Arthur paces Francis's room, unable to sleep and not quite willing to leave his friend time to sleep either. There's a bubble in his chest that expands and bursts, over and over again. When he feels his shame bleed into his heart, he turns.

"He called me a fool!" he hisses, slamming his gloves against the palm of his hand until it is a bleeding red that inks the contours of his fingers and knuckles.

"He is a decadent, Arthur."

"I am _no _fool, Francis. I have been worshipping at the altar of beauty for far too long for him to even dare—"

"It is normal, you know, amongst such circles. You are younger than he is and you are a_ shining beacon of English decadence_—is that what you called yourself that evening?" Francis sighs, moving to rub at his temples. "Yes, yes, not a fool, though. Quite. Think we can discuss this in the morn? My headache has returned, I'm afraid, and I've a deadline to meet soon."

Arthur turns again, blinking. He sits on the edge of Francis' bed, watching his friend palm his head.

"Have you considered the holiday I mentioned to you? – Lord Bracknell really is eager to have you in the countryside for some time this summer. All you need do is accept. You are more than welcome to always stay in my private summer home if you find it all too tedious later."

"I am touched by your concern," Francis smiles, pained. His thumbs press above his eyebrows.

"Nonsense," Arthur huffs, brushing over his lapels. "I am never concerned for your sake. But, you are one of my greater investments."

Francis scoffs, "I am also your _only_friend."

Arthur chooses to ignore the comment, waving him off. "Have you seen a doctor at least?"

"Yes."

"French?"

"Yes."

"At least take a trip to London to visit me, then. It will do you good to get a second opinion. Oh, don't pout. After your deadline has passed, of course, then come see me. And if it your pride that impedes you from it, then know that it won't be just as holiday as I will need you, anyway. Tonight has been a most eye-opening experience, and I think I am ready to make the most of my last two years."

"Goodness, can you for once _not_talk nonsense?—Why do you think I brought you with me tonight? You saw the Duke today and he is—"

"An _exception_. An admirable one at best, but I am not. No one can ever fault me for not being honest. Two years. It is what I have, and I have accepted as much, so should you."

"Can we speak of it in the morning?" Francis cringed, still holding to the side of his head. The throbbing burned against his skin. "I pray of you, morning. You can spew more nonsense then. I'm not sure my head can take any more tonight."

"Yes, yes, morning then," Arthur sighs, waving dismissively as he walks out the door. He leans against the wall for a minute, pursing his lips. "I will send someone with an aspirin."

"Don't bother," Francis eases his head against his desk. The wood feels cool on his temple. "It will be gone in a few hours."

"Yes, but in the meanwhile _I_will suffer through your groans. You're quite loud, Francis. An aspirin and maybe something or other later if it grows worse," he nods decisively, already disappearing behind the door: French wood with staccato-accents of gold leafs. His fingers press against the gold a moment too long. "Yes. Do let me know. Good evening, my friend."

The door closes with a slam.

Francis would cry, except it would ruin his desk. And fine wood is ever so difficult to find now-a-days.

**.**

**May 1891**

Arthur documents everything in passing. It's what he tends to do when he is mourning, a not uncommon state when dealing with his family.

Today, his brother brought him a set of new books. Or, not his brother, but the people that brought the new books did it on behalf of his brother. For Arthur, the association is everything.

It was this simple fact that led Arthur to lie listless and torpor, silent in the midst of the horror his recently perturbed library had become. He was irritated, fingers tapping and twitching as he eyed the gaps in his shelves: the only sign of the raid. That would soon be resolved, though.

When the servant brought in the new books, Arthur examined each one, growing all the more depressed. In exchange for some of his more beautiful love novels, his brother had given him romance stories. They oppressed him in the shackles of literary criticism.

After a while, he grew tired from the perfection of these more vigorous writers that could not in one of their troubled pages even emit the same tremor in his body that his missing novels had managed with a sentence.

Not one to be easily defeated, Arthur told his servant he liked the books.

"Pray send to my brother my thanks," he dismissed him with a wave, throwing himself against his arm-chair again in the catatonia of anger and frustration.

In a way, the imperfection of the new books pleased him, but only in the way a thorn's prickle burned under the pretense of natural beauty. He sighed, barely kicking his legs out in front of him before he dropped the book to a side with relative carelessness. Leaning toward a particular shelf, he pulled out one of his favorite novels.

Yes, it was just his opinion, but it was in the turbulent sketches of the decadent writer's mind – and only there – that the depravities of language married the caprices of sensations and ideas. A most delicious exaltation of the languid, intellectual sense…

Arthur had the rest of his life to read romance.

(Besides, moans were ever so much prettier sounding than sobs.)

Right now he just wanted love, even if in the shapes of letters and hanging stanzas stitched together into a deluge of sentences.

**.**

Alfred F. Jones would never understand dandies. That's what they called them in England, right? – In America they were _dudes_. Not that a change of names could help him understand any better the impulse of men to… well. Alfred could probably leave it at that.

If only it was that easy.

But the thought of dudes reminded him of New York. It reminded him of the _New York American_, a journal from back home that had reported that Evander Berry Wall had worn boots of patent leather that stopped at the hip in winter of 1889, or was it 1888? – Alfred just couldn't understand the ways in which people could crave the artificial with the same sense of incensed passion with which he yearned for the iridescent blue clashing against the trapped gold of the American prairies.

No, Alfred could never understand the allure of colored velvet and …

"Alfred?" Matthew touched his arm lightly. "What were you saying earlier? I'm afraid I missed it in the noise of the street."

Alfred blinked, bringing his brother into focus. "Oh. I was just telling you about this invitation. Remember John? Not the doctor from Barts. The other John. We spoke to him about your situation, how we're here seeking a sponsor for your novel."

"Poems," Matthew bristled, albeit amazed that his brother could at least remember that much. "They're poems. You're meant to be my editor. Shouldn't you know this?—Why do you _not _know this?"

"Yes, yes, poems, novel, the aim of publishing is not very different." Alfred waved him off, eyes still twinkling. "Listen! John's employer is hosting a most formidable ball next week. He was in charge of making the invitations, you know, and he was confided in by him—this is all very hush, hush, you know."

Matthew rolled his eyes, watching as his overly-excited brother pulled him toward the shadows of the street alley. "Don't dally about it. Just tell me."

"His employer was alarmed because he'd decided to keep the affair small so as not to invite Lord Arthur Kirkland for reasons, to be honest, I don't understand—"

"—do you not read the papers? The Duke of—"

"But the affair has grown out of hand: it seems some aristocratic family from France will be attending, and now he simply can_not_not invite Lord Kirkland, and he cannot take back the invitation to this French family unless he also wish to insult the Earl of something."

"Yes!" Matthew nodded, "because Lord Arthur Kirkland has become part of a war of influence between—"

"These people, or, I really don't know much on that, but they've accepted to attend, and John explained that because of that Kirkland _will_at least have to make an appearance, especially since his good friend… that French fellow whose writing you fancy so much…"

"Francis Bonnefoy?" Matthew's eyes bugged and he palmed his brother's arms. "Alfred, Francis Bonnefoy will be there?—we must go! If we can convince him to become my sponsor—"

"Him?—Our target is Kirkland. He financed Bonnefoy in his early days."

Matthew blinked. His palate grew dry and salty all at once. A part of him was concerned. Still, he shook his head, amused. "How do you know _that_but can't keep straight that I am seeking to publish a series of poems and not a novel?"

Alfred shrugged, "it's not that serious. Novel, poems, we just want to publish, don't we? Money, in this case, is far more important. As the businessmen of the two, I must worry about that. As for the arts, the beauty of words and all of that, well, I will leave that to you. I don't understand any of it. You just leave the numbers to me. _That_I know best!"

"Wait, but what good is it to us to know about this wonderful ball?"

"You're underestimating me again, Mattie!" He grinned, slipping from his pocket a set of invitations. Two pieces of Manila paper shone under the midday sun. "John said he's a tailor friend that might be able to loan us a few proper robes for a reasonable price."

Matthew laughed, elated as he embraced his brother. He even pressed a kiss against his twin's cheek. "You're wonderful! You are!"

Alfred coughed; cheeks flushed pink, "aww, Mattie. Yes, I know. Now come! – We've much work to do!"

The question of Arthur Kirkland's own problems was left to be considered for another day. If anything, Matthew was too elated by the prospect of meeting his literary idol too much to care for details. Details were like numbers. He'd leave that to his brother.

**.**

It was his favorite servant that interrupted Arthur's torpid afternoon with a cup of tea and a small envelope, square and familiar with a crest that both called and demanded his attention. He thanked his servant, picking at the letter with curiosity.

"A ball, Petry?" he asked languidly, sighing.

"Yes, m'lord."

"And what do you know about it?"

"Just that a highly affluent and influential family will be arriving from France tomorrow in the company of Mister Bonnefoy for the strict purposes of attending this event," Petry confided, leaning close to his master's ear as he prepared his tea. He cut open one of the scones with brevity, making sure to slop plenty of jam and butter on each side of the small cake before slamming them together into a sandwich and cutting it in half—right down the middle.

Arthur nodded, pushing away the small plate before opening the letter. He smiled, deeply amused. "The Taylor-Eirren family, I see. I'd been told Lord Taylor-Eirren was considering not inviting me, but now I see that he is a lot more intelligent than I tend to give him credit for being what with his attention to continental affairs. Amusing, isn't it, Petry? I should now mention that I will need you to make a trip to the train station tomorrow."

"The train station, m'lord?" the servant asked, preening.

"Oh yes. You must remind Francis who paid his rent for years, Petry. If I am to attend Lord Taylor-Eirren's event, then I will be most pressed for a companion. And, I am left with only a week to find one. Surely Lord Taylor-Eirren knew I'd be accepting and must have waited until the last possible day to send his invitation."

The servant nodded mutely, handing his master the saucer and tea. "Yes, m'lord."

"Just tell Francis that he will need to choose sides at once."

"M'lord?" Petry blinked.

"Then inform him that his regular guest-room has been waiting for him for a week. Do say it loudly, but not so loud that you might bring shame upon the Duchess. I know you will do it quite well." He took a sip from his tea. "You are dismissed, Petry."

His favorite servant left.

The emptiness of the room echoed around Arthur, and he spent the rest of the afternoon picking at the scone, barely dipping a few crumbs into his mouth. He was far more preoccupied with the aroma of his tea.

**.**

**May 1891**

_Go and dance._

Words whisper and run sometimes. They press too tight against his lips, peeking from the jail of his throat into the world, far too scary sometimes for such innocent sentiments. It is then that he must choose, for some words deserve peace, deserve to be courted coyly. But others? Other words are coy on their own accord. They run because they want to play. These he chases.

Yes, Francis takes words hostage. He takes sentiments and weaves them together into frocks of dreams and magic, which might all sound quite cliché if it wasn't because it is the truth. And that is the only _not_ lie he will ever tell.

**.**

He does not feel in debt to anyone, or he does not think himself to be in debt to anyone, until Petry comes to him and throws the shackles of obligation around his neck. Francis had long considered himself free from his favorite puppeteer. Now, he is not so sure.

It is in the ink of blue he typically drowns. The feeling of dancing without moving is foreign, but for an afternoon, he is frozen in a sea of violet. That's the only way he knows the Duke will never want to be friends with him again. So he gives his excuses, cursing silently at the nerve of Arthur Kirkland's childish follies before he follows Petry into the cabbie, and jumps almost instantly at the sight of pale green shining in the dark—like melted emeralds. Maybe more like a cat? A skittish one at that.

"For god's sake!" Francis presses a palm to his heart, "Are you trying to give me a fright?"

Arthur shrugs, tapping the empty seat across from him with his cane. "I see you made the _proper_ choice. Surprising, really. You." He grins, "Being considered any kind of proper. Though I suppose out of the two of us, most would consider _you_ the better gentleman."

Francis feels offended. He might have a penchant for the beautiful, for literature and for grace, but seldom would he position himself in the same constellation as the likes of Arthur Kirkland. If they share anything, it is their taste in handsome men, but even there Francis might draw the line: Arthur seeks a thrill; Francis seeks a romance. He thrives on romance. It's too bad he only gets love, shoddy love stories that amount to a verse at most in his books.

"More like I had no other choice," he huffs, undoing his cravat. "The Duke looked every bit as if he was mulling in his mind how best to off me. I'm not so sure that I will be welcome in France for a while..."

Green eyes watch him carefully as Francis runs his nimble fingers through the thick strands of blond now loose around his shoulders.

"Pray tell me this is not just some fancy you've taken to recently. Playing with grown-ups is not something spoiled children should do without careful consideration, Arthur."

"Oh come now," Arthur preens, staring at his reflection on the shine of his tin cigarette-holder. "Think of it as a forced vacation. I've been pressing you to go on holiday for how long now? – To the tailor's, Petry, and be swift about it. We are late already."

The cabbie bounces in the typical discomfort of the cobble lined roads, and Francis sighs, pulling out his pocket moleskin and preparing to scribble a few lines. He will likely never know what runs through Arthur's mind. On days like today, it drives him mad. This is what makes Arthur such a beautiful muse.

"You're playing with a most dangerous lot," he warns, sketching the white rose that lies untouched by Arthur's side.

"As _if_the Duke would really risk his reputation for you; don't flatter yourself so much, Francis. Now, then, I was thinking that perhaps I ought to do something out of the ordinary for Lord Taylor-Eirren's small soirée. Personally, I was gearing toward something mildly scandalous, though surely not so poisonous to my station as to force my brother into cutting my pension in half for the next year."

"Oh?" Francis continues writing, blinking away the beginnings of a throbbing headache. He watches as his friend picks at the petals of the rose, taking one to press it on his lips. "Don't eat that. Damnation. Why must you act like a toddler with an oral fixation at times? – As for this plan of yours: _do_tell. Such balance seems far too avant-garde for even you, my friend. Arthur, stop it."

"Indeed," Arthur grinned, leaning back. He dropped the rose, bored. The petal remained pressed to his bottom lip. "_Do tell_. I am most eager to find out what this perfect balance might be, Francis."

Francis barely flinched, pausing to look up. "I fail to follow."

"I don't think you do. I think you're playing the part now, Francis. Typically I always assume you a fool, but right now I am not in the mood for your insufferable act. Now then, be a friend. _Do tell._"

"I've no time for your fancies, Arthur," he scratched at his temples before massaging it with his fingertips. "Be frank at once."

"Oh bother," Arthur pouts, beginning to peel at the curtains of the cabbie window. He leans forward, the sight of tan skin and blue eyes catching his attention. A perk grin curls over his lips as he leans on his cane, knuckles turning white from the pressure exerted on the diamond top. "I think you know what I want Francis. Oh, oh, Petry, do stop the cabbie here, will you? I feel like taking a short walk. The route is rather scenic today."

"Something catch your eye?"

"I won't know until you tell me, will I?"

Francis rolled his eyes. "He's going to wear a normal evening jacket instead of a tuxedo. There, happy?"

"Ah, yes. Well, that is scandalous, isn't it? – I like it. It's simple. Still elegant with the right tailor at the hems of the planning, don't you think? Oh, and that does remind me of the Earl of Mayberry. I heard the Earl of Mayberry and the Duke are intimate friends. How dangerous is this little game I am playing?"

"You ask this _now_? Now that you're in it?" Francis breathes through his nose waving him off. "Quite. Not only will you now have the Earl of poisons at your neck, but you will now have the muses of an entire old continent seeking to destroy you. I do hope you are happy. We are thoroughly damned."

"I won't know yet how happy I will be, will I? – Petry, I said stop."

Francis stuffs his notebook back into his pocket.

"What is it that you have found? Let big brother have a look. Sometimes you have a most questionable taste."

"All this talk of the old continent and poisons and danger has made me rather eager to explore the _new_continent. Come have a look," Arthur murmured, sliding around to give Francis enough leverage to peek out the window. "There are two. The curly-haired one seems more your type. Don't his pretty eyes remind you of the Duke's?"

"I've a feeling you think gifting me a conquest will make up for my recently debauched friendship. My friends are certainly not that easy to replace."

Arthur sighed, waving him off. "You _are_sentimental today. Bother. Had I known, I'd stayed at home instead of coming to get you myself. Fine, then, if you are not interested in the lavender boy, then the least you can do is let me approach the other one."

"You mean the puritan? – Just look at his sensible clothes. Black, black everywhere and not a wrinkle on that face. You are in over your head. I say you leave them before you find yourself in court. Treat me to lunch instead? –I can tell you more about the Duke's expected wardrobe."

Francis words seem to tug at Arthur's sleeve. They wrap around Arthur like a blanket, welcoming him into the deceit.

Arthur stares at the two young men for one last lingering moment. They stand together conspirationally, whispering to each other with the vibrant excitement of their age. Had they been standing in front of a better tailor, Arthur might had thought them to be noble, though even he was aware that seldom were nobles the owners of any nobility. He inched closer to the window, letting his eyes focus on the short-haired blond – the one with the cornflower blue sky for eyes. And his lips parted but a slight, wet with the determination of his desire.

There was a flicker of acknowledgement when those blue eyes met his, but they quickly moved away in dismissal, perhaps the result of shyness. Arthur only bristled in response, dropping the curtains. He huffed, cheeks red. And he pouted, tempted to cross his arms.

"You're right," he acknowledges Francis. "Too comely. A right puritan if I ever saw one. Maybe a vicar's son, if not a vicar himself."

Francis chuckles, "Ah. Did he not look upon you as if you were the moon come to enchant the sun?"

"He did not. Most insulting. And after _all_the trouble I went through to catch his eye. Right down prat that one."

"Yes, yes," Francis looks away, still amused. "So much work that was, leaning close to the window, opening those heavy drapes of muslin and batting those long, _oh_, so long and curled eyelashes. Yes, Arthur, how do you ever live with yourself?"

Arthur grabs for his cane, slapping Francis' knee with it. "Hush you. Lunch, then?"

"Assuming you're still paying."

"When do I not? – Then that's settled. After a visit to the tailor's," Arthur murmurs, growing all the more flustered and frustrated whenever his eyes flicker to the curtain. "Why are we remaining stationary? – Petry! Petry, carry on now. I've decided the route is not so scenic after all. I'd rather stay the rest of the day indoors."

Francis shakes his head, bringing out his book again. He hides behind the crinkly pages, thumbs brushing over the leather of his moleskin.

"Yes, indoors," he muses rather loudly. From behind tinted leather, a pale blue eye focuses on Arthur's blushing cheeks. "Mirrors have always been your dearest friends, haven't they, Arthur?"

**.**

Matthew grabs for his brother's arm, shaking him from the momentary trance he seemed to have entered. He picks at a piece of lint from his dark jacket.

"What is it?"

The question hangs for a while, until slowly it ebbs away with the cabbie that seemed to have enchanted his brother.

Alfred only blinks the dream away, shaking his head. "Oh, no, sorry! I... it was nothing. I just thought I saw something, but it wasn't, and—we should go in now before we're late for our appointment."

Matthew nodded, staring at his brother a long while before pulling over the door to the tailor. He looked behind him at the cabbie now disappearing into the corner.

They only talked again when it was time to pay for the suits.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**April 1891**

Being the more gentlemanly of the two, Francis forces Arthur to show up on time by telling him it is for greater shock-impact. Arthur whines the entire ride, complaining that there'll be almost no one _to_ shock, and that if they are to shock _anyone _by showing up in evening clothes, then they might as well show up earlier than _seven_. But he stands quietly by Francis' side when their host welcomes them inside.

Lady Taylor-Eirren's eyes widen considerably when they fall on Arthur. Whether there is acknowledgement or contempt in her gaze is still left to be decided, but Francis smiles sheepishly behind Arthur anyway. He compliments the beauty of her gown and excuses them both for Arthur's attire.

The possibility that Arthur could be thrown out is quite present. It is custom, if not social law that all gentlemen invited to a ball should wear a tailcoat. And still, here is Arthur, ignoring the custom by wearing a decorative dinner jacket.

Arthur is aware that the dinner coat is the badge of informality. But he wears it proudly. He was not so bold as to wear it in any other color that was not black, as Francis so carefully informed him that if the Duke or even the Earl were to cause scandal by their dress, they would be sure to do so in demure black out of respect for their wives. To push the envelope beyond that would be to risk being thrown out – something for which no one, not even Arthur's own family would fault Lord Taylor-Eirren.

When Arthur follows Lady Taylor-Eirren into the sitting room, he is surprised to find that the Earl of Mayberry is already sitting there, smoking with Lady Taylor-Eirren's couturier. Francis stops behind him. Arthur feels him slam against his back before bouncing back. Everything is fogged behind a suspended illusion and he wonders if he's melted into a mirror.

"Do make yourself at home, Lord Kirkland," Lady Taylor-Eirren ushers them inside, pointing out different parts of the room to Francis' aesthetic delight. It's a fine home. A _rich_ home. Arthur is tempted to comment on its beauty, but he fears his assertion will not be considered genuine, not when his very attire insults his hostess.

"Oh dear," Francis whispers close to Arthur's ear, eyeing the Earl, who has taken notice of them and smiled at them, "it's barely half past seven."

"How many rules do you think he has broken already? – Being seen in evening attire before seven, the clothes, imposing on his host? – Surely _I_ will not be thrown out if he hasn't already. _Ah!_ Lord Mayberry! Such a pleasure; it really has been too long. When did we see each other last? Was it at Lady Wotton's benefit?"

"Quite!" the Earl stands, shaking Arthur's hand, which is clad in the white glove typically customary of any evening ball. Arthur stands demurely. The Earl's brown eyes flash with amusement as they fall on Arthur and he grins, touching the side of the mask that covers half his face and showing off the black leather encasing his hands.

The mask is a customary mark of the Earl of Mayberry, whose face may only be visible to the crown and to his wife. Arthur's gaze falls on the nimble fingers pressing against the bright white. His stomach churns. Everyone knows the Mayberry name is constructed, a gift from the crown to its most lucrative agent in essential and _dangerous_ affairs. A glorified hit man with a crown, really. But even so, this gives the Earl many freedoms, many Arthur doesn't enjoy.

Still, playing with poisons is one; treating Arthur like a child is _another_. Never mind that they are closer in age than either is comfortable with admitting.

"I see you have bypassed the flap tails _and_ worn a white vest with your dinner jacket," the Earl remarks, leaning close to whisper, "You rebel."

Arthur grins, leaning forward. Inside, he feels small, left behind in the dust of an explosion.

For Mayberry standards, Arthur has played it safe. Who really knows what happens in Mayberry Manor? Regardless, Arthur is donning a dinner jacket and that gives the Earl certain freedoms—certain familiarities. Arthur's choice will in no way alter the balance of the room; much less call attention to himself with the handsome Earl prancing around in his own substitute evening ensemble.

It _really_ is a beautiful jacket.

The Earl's jacket stops at the waistline, outlining his tapered waist. In the typical style of the Earl of Mayberry, the shoulder pads peek out an inch more than normal on each side, calling attention to his naturally broad shoulders.

Francis seems fascinated by the cut, never having seen the Earl in evening clothes. He stares at the way in which the back area of the jacket fans out elegantly with the _same_ contours and crisp edges. The fan of fabric is held together at the tip by an expensive silver broach with diamonds – the Earl's emblem, right on his back. He wishes he might touch it, lay his warm fingers gloveless against the coolness of the metal and gems. On the front, the jacket's buttons are black, though in the front, near his navel, lays a silver chain across two of the buttons for decoration. Francis' eyes do not miss this, committing it to memory.

It is a _beautiful_ jacket.

Arthur takes mental notes, too, noting the way in which the Earl has donned a simple collar shirt beneath it and bypassed a vest completely. He further sketches in his mind the intricacies of the cut of the trousers, the clean make of the black shoes.

Francis pulls Arthur over to a chair to sit. He knows of his friend's attraction to the Earl of Mayberry – his desire to impress. It is perhaps the same penchant the Earl himself has towards the Duke. It's too bad the Duke is as devoted to his wife as the Earl is to his. Still, the rumors flare whenever the Duke is in the room with the Earl, just as easily as they are fanned whenever Arthur is in the same room as the Earl. This, though, is likely to be the first time that the three of them will be in a single room at once. Surely poor Lady Taylor-Eirren must be having a headache already.

Francis pities her immensely.

The Earl has now returned to his conversation. Sometimes he gives Arthur a smile. Sometimes he stares at Francis. He is obviously bored, but polite.

"And you say these do not stain?" the curious gentleman – a couturier by the name of George, if Arthur and Francis remember correctly – crowds the Earl, watching as the noble takes off one of his black gloves and turns it inside out. The couturier touches the glove with his fingertips. "Ah."

"Not even a bit," the Earl replies, showing the tan of his hand, "I hate the white inside the inner-lining of regular black gloves. And I refuse to use glove powder for it gives me horrid hives. I was introduced to this particular brand by my good friend the Duke—"

"It's doeskin!" the couturier interrupts, amazed, and rightly so what with the cost of reducing doeskin to a color so fine and a fit so thin, "fine doeskin at that! A remarkable find for the sake of fashion, m'lord. I should not be surprised."

Black gloves. Arthur looks away, fisting his hands. For evenings, it should be white. Otherwise, only golden brown or maroon is an acceptable color. He stares at his own fingers, flexing them under the dim lighting of the room.

The couturier gasps and stands.

Immediately, the Earl stands as well, a brightness in his eyes that quickly dulls. His lips, the only truly visible part of his face, twist in a mock-frown.

"Oh _really_? What a _disappointment_! I thought we were agreed! – See, even Lord Kirkland played along. I hate it that you are so proper. It is unbecoming of your reputation."

"Worry not for my reputation," the Duke chuckles, taking the Earl's hand in the grip of his own black gloves. He is wearing a well-tailored, expensive tailcoat and the typical trousers and shined shoes that mark the evening attire of many a ball. His single and small act of rebellion is on his hands, because they're both wearing black gloves, maybe as a sign to his own private club with the Earl, one Arthur is not invited to join. Otherwise he remains impeccably dressed, calling attention to himself only for the beauty of his face.

Arthur feels _nauseous_.

"Your clothes are too tailored, my friend," the Duke chides jokingly, nodding towards the couturier. He keeps his back to Arthur and Francis.

Next to him, Francis feels Arthur cringe, anger apparent in the tension of his shoulders and jaw.

"Are you still my tutor? – Come now," the Earl waves him off, taking a seat once again and sliding until he has left the couturier without space and given the Duke just enough. Put off, Arthur watches the couturier move to an armchair. "I've had no complains. They seem to like my clothes at all the events I attend. Not once have any of my hostesses remarked on them unfavorably."

The couturier nods.

"I don't doubt it," the Duke replies, already growing bored. "Though the absence of complaints should _hardly_ be considered a sign of approval; if we are honest, Michael, you only get away with this because you are such a horridly beautiful tyrant, but hardly would anyone – even pressed – say you are a gentleman."

"But I'm not a gentleman, am I? – I'm the Earl of Mayberry Manor," he places a hand on the Duke's shoulder, grinning. "Gentlemen are afraid of me stealing their wives and their wives pray for my soul while the Queen honors me with strawberry leaves. Isn't that the way it has been for generations in my family? Do they _not_ say that in Paris anymore?"

"Oh, they do," the Duke appeases him with a coy smile, touching his hand to keep it in place. "_I_ ensure it."

Arthur huffs and turns away from the sight out of boredom. He hisses, "dinner jacket, eh?"

Francis shrugs sheepishly. "My mistake; how was I to know he'd change his mind?"

"Then why are you so shocked?" the Earl chuckles. Arthur jumps; soon he grows aware they're all having multiple conversations at once.

"Because Rebecca most certainly deserves better from you…" the Duke interrupts, "I was under the impression you were horribly smitten with her. Poor dear, coming from a fine family, considered one of the most beautiful debutantes of her time and still married to a man that cannot even keep straight that it is white gloves that are the only proper kind for evening affairs."

"So says the man that wears black for everything. Even his hands. And tonight, too."

"People are aware of my _minute _eccentricities in the name of practicality."

"Minute, yes." The Earl shrugs sardonically and shifts to offer his friend a cigarette, which the Duke refuses with his palm. "And your darling wife Sasha, where is she?"

"She has gone off to find Rebecca."

"Surely they must be with Lady Taylor-Eirren," the Earl sighs, "Poor Elizabeth, having to deal with the three of us in a single evening."

Arthur preens, lifting his head. He leans on the arm of the sofa, bright green staring at his prey under the gentle sway of blond lashes. "Why do you say that, Michael?"

"Come now, Arthur. Need you ask? – I would say you can see your future in front of you."

Arthur replies something or other, which Francis assumes has been taken to be wit. He knows Arthur better. Arthur is seething, and anything he has said is less the result of wit and more that of frustration. Both seem to bring out the best in his friend. Arthur is never one to take a beating without at least an attempted scratch.

Francis brings out his notebook, opening it to an empty page ready to sketch the sight of the three generations of dandies now in front of him. He had forgotten that Lord Mayberry had once acted as Arthur's tutor, much like the Duke had been Lord Mayberry's – it is a striking parallel and it leaves him rather dizzy. He's almost afraid to picture what Arthur will become in the magnification of age.

The Duke turns to him at last, a soft smile forced from his lips. Arthur wants to rip it from his face, burn it in the furnace.

"Lord Kirkland! I do apologize. It seems that whenever Michael and I enter the same room, we just simply lose ourselves in each other's company and forget all concept of propriety. It is a pleasure to see you. Francis, the same to you, old friend; how goes your newest novel?"

Francis blinks, "Ah, yes, quite. Good to see you as well. It is fine. Always fine."

"Will I still have the pleasure of reading it first?"

Arthur turns to Francis, lips pursed tightly.

"As soon as it is published, surely, you will be among the first. I will personally bring you the first copy from the press." He gulps, hiding his book. "The script, however, I'm afraid, has already been called for, both by my editor and my muse, as you know. Arthur is a connoisseur of literature _par excellence_."

Arthur blinks, surprised. He smiles to himself coyly, reminding himself that he has treated Francis rather poorly as of late. He will have to find a way to make it up to him.

"A muse?—Not yet hit your prime and already you are a muse, Lord Kirkland," the Duke smiles at him affably and genuinely. It releases a set of reverberations and waves of heat all over Arthur's chest. And he grows aware of how honestly he wishes to please. "I say much can be expected of you in time."

Michael nods, soon turning to his conversation with the couturier once more, though not without adding his own approval: "Time is the greatest mentor, after all. As are _mistakes_—oh, I pray your pardon, what was that, George? Yes, yes, I will give you the name of the crafter for sure."

The Duke nods, blue eyes seeped with lukewarm violet still burning through Arthur.

**.**

Francis drags Arthur by the arm, pulling him to a corner of the room later—after dinner. Lord Mayberry turns to find that Arthur has left his side, but he moves forward anyway, seeking out the company of his wife.

Already those guests that were not invited to dinner have arrived and a first dance has commenced. Admitting his defeat, Arthur has thrown his silent tantrum and positioned himself in a way that might best ingratiate his host. It would do him little good to lose the favor of Lord Taylor-Eirren, not when he is in the midst of unfinished business with the Duke. So he's already filled a slot on Lady Rebecca Mayberry's dance card. He would have liked to fill a slot in the Duchess' as well, but she confessed with a coy smile that her husband had already filled it. As such, he went to fill someone else's card, avoiding his hostess, not fully out of courtesy to her.

He certainly did not want to shame Lady Taylor-Eirren. His tantrum, after all, had not been successful. But he also did not want her to refute him with the simple excuse that as _hostess_ her card was already full.

"Listen to me," Francis hisses, pushing him to look over at the Duke, who seems to be in pleasant conversation over a glass of champagne with a group of Lord Taylor-Eirren's chosen group of friends for the evening. Francis fixes the lapels of Arthur's coat. "Listen to me well, Arthur. I have risked a lot tonight for our friendship and for you. I will not have you lose—"

"Lose what?" he blinks, confused. From the corner of his eye, he sees a familiar head of wavy-blonde hair in the middle of an influential crowd that includes the Duchess. He's not sure from where he might know the young man, though, so he turns to Francis again. "_Oh. _I see. Francis, oh, but the Duke himself—"

"Can you not see they are playing you? Oh, Arthur! Sometimes I forget how naïve you can be!"

"I admit his commentary was, again, a bit harsh. But he proved an excellent point. Now I know that this is a game to be played intelligently: either you throw all convention to the wind or remain demure in your grieving clothes. I have learnt. Now leave me be. There is little I can blame on either the Earl or the Duke for my own carelessness. Next time I will be bolder. I apologize if I have been an inconvenience."

"Neither are your friends. _They_ are not even friends! Just be careful. Promise?"

"Francis…"

"_Promise_?—Neither was attempting to _teach_ you a lesson, not as amicably or as altruistically as you're making it out to be, dear."

"Yes, yes, fine," Arthur scoffs, leaning against the wall, "What am I to do? Do _tell._"

Francis blinks, pursing his lips. There's a prickling pain on his temple, the beginnings of those horrid migraines pinching at the tips of his brain. "Go socialize. Something. Just. Just don't stand here in the corner. You do not have the benefit of a beautiful wife at your arm wearing an expensive work of art on her body. As such, you must bat your eyelashes, shine those emeralds and grin as much as possible. If need be, I myself will comment on the blush of your cheeks or the blond of your hair, but I'll be damned if—"

"You care about me, don't you?" Arthur laughed, touching Francis' arm. There was a soft warmth spreading through his chest as he pulled Francis a little closer, "Oh, my dear. How did I not see it? Oh, Francis. I'm so sorry. I can never return—"

"Are you mad?! No! Have you never just had a friend? Goodness, there's my headache again," Francis massaged his temples. "I'm more a gentleman than you, Arthur. I still feel for propriety and believe in equality and fairness and everything that marks the brotherhood amongst all men. It was one thing when it was between you and he, but this, this is unacceptable. He could not make use of Michael's face, so he used his own and, to save himself, he sacrificed his friend—not that it was much of a sacrifice seeing as the Earl would have worn that with or without permission. But it just, it isn't fair. Two against one is never fair. I'm evening the scores."

Arthur bit his bottom lip, studying his friend's shadowed face. His eyes brightened considerably. "He rebuked you. He seduced you and did not reciprocate when you—"

"The bastard! We must not let him win…"

"You made a pass at the Duke of Châtellerault!"

"Hush!"

"And here I thought this was because you were my friend," Arthur ripped his arm away from his companion. "Let me go, frog."

"Oh hush. This is for you. Yes, he rebuked me. He rebuked the Earl, too. We are still acquainted, aren't we? It is not that. But, fine, do not listen to me, then."

Arthur paused, turning to stare at Francis a long while. He let out a suffering sigh, nodding. "Fine, fine. Lead me to the first group."

**.**

He grows tired after a while. Everyone does. It's late, but Francis has warned him that he must not be the first of the three to leave, lest he wish to eternally be thought as the conceding party. The Duke will not stay for longer than he has to, Francis warns him, and he will not stay in London long after the soirée either, which means that if Arthur survives tonight, he will have earned the Duke's amusement, if not respect.

"Oh, he respects no one except his wife," Francis tells him, waving him off.

But amusement is better than contempt. Arthur can deal with amusing someone—eventually, he will be thought of as charming. Until then, though, he has to wallow in his mistake.

The only beautiful thing – and, oh, Arthur does know beautiful things – is that he feels young for this. It is his youth that breeds his naiveté. Arthur had never imagined himself naïve.

Now, he seems to like it.

**.**

Arthur watches everything from afar, taking the tastes of sound in snippets of color, from swishing fabric to the rolling of tea and champagne. Soon, he grows bored, so he moves to follow the crowd into the following room and ends up in a corner of the sitting room next to Lady Rebecca, sweet Rebecca, the Countess of Mayberry, whose husband sits on the other side of her, chatting rather amicably with _the_ Duchess. The Duchess is across from the Earl, grey eyes exploring the contouring shadows of his pale mask.

Arthur simply watches the Earl and the Duke avoid each other. Something has happened in the last hour.

Francis, too, stays away from the Duke. He stands across the room, away from the corner, where he is safe chatting up with a few other men that seem to have a penchant for congratulating him every five seconds. Arthur can tell by the way Francis sloshes his glass whenever they touch his arm that he is uncomfortable.

"Oh, but it isn't true, is it?" Lady Rebecca purses her rosebud mouth, staring down at her delicate hands. She turns to her husband, "Is it?"

Arthur can't blame her. It is their English blood. He is alarmed as well, albeit with less severity.

The Earl simply presses a leather-covered hand on her wrist, feeling the pulse fluttering beneath her skin like waves of summer rain drumming on a windowpane.

"It is true," the Duchess replies. She does not wait to hear a rebuttal before she takes a long sip of the tea that had been reserved just for her—clear and clean, not a single spot of white. She takes a soft whiff and smiles. "The average Englishman is a very bad judge of tea. He truly is."

She speaks of the subject detached, not caring that within the generalization she might include half her husband's lineage. She is neither English nor French, so there is no guilt. She is Russian. And not even proud or keen to remember _that_ either. Arthur likes her. He comes to understand in the splitting moment whereby his stomach dips when her gray eyes fall on him that he's attracted to her in the strange way that someone might confuse wanting to _be_ someone with wanting to be _with_ someone. Yes, he wants what she has—it is what she knows that's so attractive.

Men have tried to construct borders since the Treaty of Westphalia, but few have managed to deconstruct them.

And now here is this woman, so eager to transcend. She is so good at it, too. The Duchess is beyond boundaries. She is eternal. Her beauty makes her continental. The Duke probably knew this when he married her – the greatest part of his collection.

"Oh, come now," the Earl sighs, touching the side of his mask. He lingers in the conversation only a moment, taking the teacup from his wife's dainty hand. "You do _not_ have to listen to her, Rebecca."

But Rebecca is implicated in the conversation, for it is she that in the naiveté of her youth and middle-class background doused the tea with milk, forcing the Duke to refuse it. Though, Arthur would be more willing to bet that if the Duke refused it, it had less to do with milk and more with the fact that the Earl was the one handing it over. Arthur sits up now, considerably sharpened by her words. He stares at the saucer in his own palm—tea untouched as it sloshes in the fine china.

"The Englishman's sole criterion," the Duchess continues, leaning forward, "for quality really is its color and strength; its delicate flavor he drowns in sugar and milk."

Arthur stares at his own cup, growing disgusted. He sets it on the coffee table, turning his attention to the adjoining ball room.

"Rebecca," the Earl consoles his wife, who is now a pretty shade of pink. "Do not listen to her."

The Duke turns, violet eyes now set on the pair. He chuckles, "Pray listen to your husband and do not despair, Lady Rebecca. Neither tea nor sugar is to be mourned. Tea constitutes no considerable portion of the typical Englishman's food, or at least it had not until quite recently. Certainly, his poor habits put him at the mercy of the tea dealer, but even this he should not mind, for he gambles and deals with himself. Or, his own kind, if we are to be precise."

"What does a Frenchman noble know of English commerce," Arthur upturns his lips, bored. He knows well why he shares the corner with the group, even though he now knows they dislike him. The only people honestly friendly to each other are the Countess and the Duchess, and that is only the case because the Duchess has little to fear from Lady Rebecca. They're different kinds of beauties, as their husbands are very different types of decadents.

"I am half-English," the Duke replies, not once making sure to mention his own Earldom. The Duke is a hybrid, possessed by nobility in ways he disdains. Arthur, on the other hand, is a purebred. He relishes in the thought. "I am also well-studied in economics and trade. I have even been to India myself."

"I meant no offense," Arthur licks his lips. "Just that—"

"Oh, there he is. Look, darling, that's the young man I was telling you about," Lady Sasha leans closer to the table, smiling excitedly. "His brother is a writer. It seems the dears are here on business, trying to secure an endowment with which to publish a book—a novel perhaps? I've been meaning to sponsor a new artist soon. All of mine have grown quite notorious now and received most formidable reviews." She cringes, "surely you understand why I must stop funding them at once."

Rebecca mulls over her tea, "ah, but isn't it good that they are doing so well? Good critiques are… good, aren't they?"

Her husband gives her an appreciative smile, pressing a kiss to her temple. The Duke rolls his eyes, clearly unimpressed by the public display of affection. Arthur follows his lead.

"Well, my love," the Earl explains gently, still petting her hands, "the masses are not the best interpreters of fine literature, or I at least take that's what Lady Sasha meant to say."

"My elder brother is quite right," Sasha beams, using the term of endearment with an upturned smile. Everyone knows they're not really related. Their only call to solidarity is the reason for their honor in front of the crown. If the Earl is a glorified hit-man, then the Duchess is a glorified spy. "Let me call him over. I do want you to meet with him, dear, no complaints."

The Duke shrugs. "You've full access to the checkbook. Why need I waste my time?"

"Yes, but I want you to give me your opinion on his brother's work. You were a wonderful poet once. Oh, Monsieur Jones! Yes, over here. Pray, a moment?"

Arthur looks up at the same time as the young man was bumbling his way over to them. He took a short sip of his tea. Then, he saw bright blue and perfect gold and dropped the cup—there, in a sea of debauchery, was _the puritan_.

**.**

Alfred Jones is like a ray of sunlight trapped in a jar. He's excitable and loud and he fumbles with his hands as he speaks, sometimes shifting in his seat to dispel the uncomfortable tightness of his evening attire, which, having been rented, is perhaps a size too small. Though Arthur most certainly doesn't mind, what with the broad shoulders well-encased in the trap of dark cloth and the fine cut accentuating a tailored waistline.

He speaks comfortably about finances and his brother's literature, easily handing over a copy of his brother's finest poems for the Duke's consideration. The Earl stands behind the Duke, and together their eyes scan the pages, sometimes taking small pauses to congratulate Alfred on his brother's _finesse _with language.

Sasha makes sure to intercede every once in a while, mentoring them on how to best savor the youthful simplicity of the verses' construction, the way they're almost a testament to Francis' legacy, if any of them _remember _Francis' earliest works.

Arthur snorts silently to himself. Locked inside a set of unsteady nerves, he even drinks from his tea, and feels, next to him, as the Countess brightens considerably.

"Is it alright?" she asks Arthur amicably, "Would you like some more?"

"It is the best tea, the best I've ever had made by such delicate hands," he remarks, the lines of his face softening as they fall on the contours of her heart-shaped face. She really is so very beautiful, like a doll with eyes too big, too innocent to see the world and he can't help but wonder how it is that such a pure creature – made of light and naïve contentment – could ever have been wedded to a man so dark and cynical. "I thank you for your offer, but I will enjoy this one and let the taste stay raptured on my tongue. Some things are so much more enjoyable in their end."

She nods, giving him a pretty smile. "I know you are just being kind," she notes, looking down at her hands with a pink blush over her pale cheeks, "but I thank you for your comfort."

Lady Rebecca needs few comforts. She is the most sensible of the group. Arthur notes this as he gulps down the last bit of his tea, feeling almost ashamed

* * *

**Author Note: **I know there's a lot of Victorian etiquette imbued in this. I hope you're following most of it without troubles. But if you're not, next time we can take a short break to go over it all. Or, alternatively, you can just try to find this on the kink-meme (anyone have a link?) and read through the ridiculously long comments I typed.

The Earl of Mayberry and "The Duke," as well as their wives, belong to original stories dealing with the more decadent facets of the Victorian era. Their stories are far more complicated and filled with magical realism than this one (which really has none, though I am so tempted,) and I'm not really giving you any details on them, outside of the minimum to understand their interactions. For that matter, I've thwarted their timelines and their personalities a bit to input them here, so maybe they're not really the same characters, but that's a bit too meta for me to consider. Since I needed to give Arthur rivals, I figured I'd use characters I'm familiar with – truly decadent characters to create a contrast. However, I just wanted to mention they're OCs, not countries, and will likely not appear again until the end. The point of having them was to show the silliness behind the trivial concerns of these people and their world-vision, and to give Arthur some competition in trying to impress Alfred in the future. My apologies if they annoyed you.


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